


Our History

by planetofthewhelks



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M, I just need an outlet for my Diaval headcanons okay, i don't even know what i'm doing, slow burn maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetofthewhelks/pseuds/planetofthewhelks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew. Well, no, he didn’t. He had no idea what the mechanics were behind changing a handsome bird such as himself into a man, but he knew enough. He knew what she wanted, why she had saved him from the farmer and his filthy, mange-infested dogs. This act had not been of the kind and selfless variety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Muddied and exhausted, Diaval shook, adrenaline coursing through his system from his close encounter with the unsavory man, murderous hounds, and transformation that had saved his life. He looked down and studied what had been done to him. His wings had transformed into long limbs with appendages attached at the ends, similar to his old feet, but stubbier, talons flat and blunt and useless. Shiny black feathers no longer covered his body. He was soft and pink, fine dark hair sporadically covering his body with no discernible rhyme or reason that he could figure. Raised white lines broke the smooth skin of his chest and formed something similar in appearance to a footprint his previous feet might have left. Every nook and cranny exposed to the cool air felt raw. His feet had no calluses, and they ached where sharp bits of dirt and bark dug into them.

A vague sense of loss nagged at the back of his mind. He suspected that there had been other changes to his person, or bird self, that were not so easily detected. He quelled the urge to go into a full-blown panic and focused outward. Everything was much as he had last observed it, excluding the slightly different vantage point and the suspicion that his vision, hearing, sense of smell and touch had changed in drastic ways that he could not quite pinpoint and would perhaps never be able to. She, of course, was there, the forest spirit, fairy, whatever they were called. With surprising ease, he found himself unconsciously interpreting her facial expression as carefully controlled neutrality, that or boredom? He thought words and they emerged flawlessly from the pliable thing that must be his new beak. “What did you do to my beautiful self?” 

He knew. Well, no, he didn’t. He had no idea what the mechanics were behind changing a handsome bird such as himself into a man, but he knew enough. He knew what she wanted, why she had saved him from the farmer and his filthy, mange-infested dogs. This act had not been of the kind and selfless variety. Every tree in the woods and rock in the river had its place. He was not an expert on the rules of the Moors, but he was fairly certain that altering him in this way was strictly against every single one of them. His life had been spared, damned and claimed simultaneously. He morbidly imagined the brittle snap of his bones between the jaws of the hounds and wondered which fate he would end up preferring in the end. He played coy to the best of his ability but gave in quickly and inevitably to her claim, promising his loyalty, his wings, and his life.


	2. 2

[Scroll to the end for chapter warnings]

 

The first few days of Diaval’s new life had been a flurry of traumatizing transformations and spying on his mistress’s ex. At least, that’s who he thought he might be based solely upon the way that she pursed her lips when Diaval brought up the soon to be king in his reports. Speaking of which, there had been very little to report. As far as he could tell, the entire kingdom had come to a complete standstill, everyone waiting impatiently for the old geezer to just die already. What he meant, is that things at the palace were, tense, but also extremely tedious and boring. Even so, spying on the palace was, by far, the most enjoyable part of Diaval’s new daily routine. It was time spent away from his mistress who spoke very little to him and tended to turn him into a bird or rodent if he attempted to strike up conversation, which he did often. He tended to talk quite a bit when he felt nervous, and Maleficent made him feel very nervous.

 

Their current location was a relatively private patch of forest. Maleficent was seated on a rock nearby the river’s edge, the back of her dress open down to the waist. Diaval crouched behind her with a clean, water dampened cloth patting gently at the ruined nubs of flesh in between her shoulder blades. The muscles in her neck and back tensed at the first few dabs of the cloth, but her breathing quickly evened out, and she gave no further indication of being in pain. He imagined the carefully controlled expression of complete and utter apathy that she must be wearing. His heart dropped into his stomach as he took a closer look at his mistress’s wounds, his suspicions confirmed.

 

“Well?” she inquired smoothly. She must have heard his exhale of gloom for exactly what it had been. Concealing thoughts and feelings in human form was a complex skill to learn. _Well._

 

“Well,” He paused and found it difficult to continue. Her back jumped under his hand as she exhaled sharply through her nose.

 

“Did I leave your brain a raven's?” He smiled. Even in pain, she had a sense of humor. The truth of the matter was that his brain had never returned to its original state. His initial suspicions had been confirmed the day before last, when he had attempted to strike up a conversation with a fellow raven and had found the conversation exceedingly dull. The bird’s concerns were simple and few. Diaval had pressed on regardless, determined to make the encounter a positive one, but the other bird had grown wary of Diaval as he unthinkingly used body language more suited to man than bird. It had flown off in a state of panic, and he had been left alone on the quivering branch feeling a little bit insulted. No, Diaval did not have the brain of a raven, nor that of a man, or mouse, or worm. He doubted that brains had much of anything to do with whatever his mind and consciousness consisted of.

 

“No, Mistress.” He did his best to adopt a soothing tone. The words emerged less than soothing. More broken and jagged with an inappropriate note of humor, and very quiet, as if he hadn’t spoken in a week, or ever. She was silent for a moment.

 

“Then use your words.” Her tone was measured, a minuscule hint of amusement evident in the upward lilt of her last syllable. He did want to. He loved to talk, bird or man, and here she was inviting him, insisting. He just, didn’t want to deliver the news because it was bad news. There had been absolutely no change, no change since yesterday or the day before or the day before that. The wounds were still open and raw. They weren’t bleeding, but that was the extent of the improvement. If she was healing, it was at an undetectably slow rate, and this, this was him trying his hand at optimism. And even though she had basically ruined his life by saving it and turning him into something that didn’t fit or belong anywhere, except perhaps by her side, he couldn’t bring himself to give her bad news because she was such a sad thing already. He’d been by her side for a week, and during that time, he’d never seen her smile, never heard a chuckle. Her favorite pastimes appeared to be hobbling about in the woodlands and sitting around moping.

 

“I think they look, better today.” Another weighted pause.

 

“You are an abysmal liar.”

 

“No, really. There is definitely some scabbing or, something over here.” He gestured at the left stump, vaguely and pointlessly since she couldn’t see anything that he was doing. Diaval paused in his ministrations as muscle and bone shifted beneath skin and damp cloth. He glanced up. She had turned and fixed him with a piercing gaze.

 

“Diaval.” He looked down hastily and returned to his task.

 

“There is little change, Mistress.” He could still feel her eyes searing into him.

 

“Do not lie to me again.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.” His cheeks burned. Her back shifted, indicating that she had turned her head back to its original position. Diaval let out the smallest sigh of relief? Or resignation? He had no idea. The cloth was laid on a nearby stone in favor of the poultice Maleficent had taught him to prepare. He began the slow process of applying it and redressing her wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there's anything super traumatizing, but just in case, this chapter is focused on Maleficent's lack of wings- they're basically cleaning and redressing the wound.
> 
> Also, thanks very much for the kudos. Let me know if you see any mistakes or if something could use more clarification. I don't have anyone proofreading my work and my mother's a very nice lady - too nice to be any good at constructive criticism.

**Author's Note:**

> So a buddy dragged me, kicking and screaming, to see this movie... and now I'm writing fanfiction about it. Also, I can't remember the last time that I shipped a f/m couple. This is confusing. I am confused.


End file.
